Constant Circles
by nexumie
Summary: There were beginnings, but where were the ends? Her life looped around itself, wound through his fingers, and throttled her breath. And she thought, is this the end? And he replies, no dear there are no ends, only new beginnings...but the space between them does not have to be blissful. Her life became a circle, and he was at its center. Had big plans for this one but discontinued
1. Prologue: Let Me Tell You

**Prologue: Let Me Tell You.**

* * *

 _Severus,_

 _I am aware you will find it rather strange, these words coming from a person who should not exist, someone who must be long gone by the time this makes it to you._

 _I do not speak as the woman who once lived only to lead you to places we should have never been to, and I am not speaking to you as the person who never should have been present, regardless of these many circumstances that so insisted on our being together._

 _No, Severus, I am simply speaking to you, as the woman who did everything within her powers to stay._

 _I am speaking to you as a person who really did once exist, no matter how distant my memories must have become, no matter the time that must have passed, no matter if you still recall me, and I hope with all my being, that you do._

 _I hope you remember your Constance, Severus._

 _It is rather strange; for I have spent such long times only wishing I could reach finality, a resolution. Wishing I could finally let you know that all that perspired, was hardly only a facet of our dreaming. Unknowingly, I squandered all my time only wishing I could speak to you again._

 _So now when I find myself poised over this parchment, I really do find my lack of words strange. I should have imagined that I had endless ramblings just waiting to spill themselves, but on the contrary, I know not what to say._

 _Perhaps I could muse about those years I spent flashing back and forth, willing the universe to let me juggle my two lives without consequences. I should want you to know that the life with you was the better one._

 _It has always been the better one._

 _I could ponder on those moments when we deliberated between the dangerous balance of what was right and what we wanted. I could recollect all those instances which I still recall, for they seem to be the only strings attaching me to my conscious. There seems to be a vast ocean of all that I left unsaid, Severus, but I had so little time._

 _I always had little time._

 _Possibly, if I had come to terms with that fact, I may have pulled myself away._

 _But I didn't._

 _And I forgot how my actions would eventually have consequences. But I never imagined it would irrevocably ensnare us both. And among the hordes of excuses I have provided for which I should have offered apologies, accept this one, Severus. I am aware of your despise for empty justifications, and I do not know how to convince you that mine are anything but empty._

 _Empty. Despite its implications, it is quite a heavy word. It is how I felt after the pain passed. And it was relentless, all consuming pain, and yet I still did not welcome the emptiness. It would have been better to be dead, than live as a corpse. I can only pray the magnitude of your pain did not match mine. For I suspect the agony is what would eventually take me._

 _There are many things I want you to know. Much too many things I want to say to you. But it has always been so, and I still have such little time. So I shall only tell you some things I deem the most important, and I want only one thing of you, I only want you to believe me._

 _There was always such few things I had wanted in life. I never let myself want, it always ended unpleasantly. Every time I had wanted, I found myself in situations compromising, situations not of my making, and I suffered, Severus._

 _So I taught myself how to not want. And it only took one mortal for me throw my learning away._

 _You._

 _You were the only thing I ever wanted with the kind of ardor I tried to keep masked. And while my mind's eye remembers the manner in which you would display your contempt at my forwardness with my emotions, you must know I am being truthful._

 _And look at where that got me. With you, I always seemed to forget about the consequences._

 _And I will never know when my blatant want eventually morphed into a need. It was quite amusing, actually. I did not realize I needed you until the moment everything was taken from me._

 _And here is one of the things I want to tell you. As much as I denied it, I knew that sometime, some place, somehow, I let you become my everything._

 _And now, here is one more thing I want you to know. I am aware how fickle I shall sound, but I beg you to believe me. I know many of my actions must contradict what I am to say, but I assure you, every time I said it, I always meant it. And I want you to know that even as I write, I still mean it._

 _I loved you, Severus. I truly did._

 _And I really do not know if I still live while you live, but I assure you, the chasm between life and death would be an insignificant detail when it comes to this._

 _Yes, Severus, I still do. Wherever I am, I am still tied to you._

 _And I cannot apologize sufficiently for all that transpired despite my claims. Please believe when I say that there happened to be devastating amounts of occurrences that were out of my control._

 _I shall not -cannot- dwell on the many possibilities that were always a hairsbreadth away. I can speculate, but I cannot let my speculation take over. I beg you do the same, Severus. I do not wish for you to suffer. I beg you to not reside in the past anymore, for I know you must be burdening yourself doing so._

 _Severus, there will always be something more to tell you no matter how much I write. I might keep writing until I break._

 _And I am breaking, Severus, I am entirely falling apart._

 _And the aspect that tears at me is that there is nothing left I can do. I did a lot, but it was not enough, was it? Sometimes I ask of myself, if it was not enough, was it worth it?_

 _But somehow if I was ever granted a second chance, I will willingly live through it all, again. And then I realize I have my answer. It was always here, the answer has always been yes._

 _Severus._

 _Among the multitude of things I want to tell you, here's just one more._

 _If given the choice, I would have still died, rather than come back._

 _Regards,_

 _Constance._

* * *

 **A/N:**

Hello and welcome to this new fiction!

I am aware my writing skills must have gotten quite rusty over the many years I battled my block. Apart from that, I wonder if I would have an audience from a long-dormant fandom?

Oh well. Please review and let me know if you smell potential in this story. I do have a rather notoriously complicated plot brewing within my brain, and I don't fully trust myself to write it satisfactorily.

But of course, I shall do my very best.

 **nexumie.**


	2. Promises

**Chapter 1: Promises.**

* * *

"I shall leave, then."

Tom Riddle Senior's eyes met a pair of fuming, defiant little ones.

"Connie. You are barely nine years old. Where will you go?"

"Far away." The girl replied, green eyes flashing. "I will take Tom and go far away."

Her father sighed a long suffering sigh. This happened to be an argument thrown back and forth relentlessly, from the moment Constance had learned of her brother's whereabouts.

"Come here, Connie."

Clad in her small nightgown, curls undone down her back, Constance hesitantly walked towards her father. Her arms were bound in a knot as insolent as her voice, but her tiny frame was not very daunting.

The older man hoisted her and placed her on the bed, then he took her small hand in his own.

"Connie," he started, "You cannot care for Tom as you do." He stated. He knew very well, the onslaught of "ifs" and "buts" that were soon to follow, and he halted them with a commanding hand.

"I have explained to you, who Tom is, and where he came from." His voice was exhausted, "He is not family, Constance."

"He is my brother." She snapped back.

"No," her father retaliated. "He is someone who was born from dark, dark magic. Connie, we gave Tom away because he was not normal."

Constance pulled her hand out of her father's.

"You gave him away because you did not love him!"

Tom's eyes widened. This was a truthful claim, but the fire in his daughter's voice made the truth seem dirty. He gathered her struggling hand back in his.

"Of course, I do not love him. Tom is not family." He repeated, firmly. It hurt him to see her daughter's eyes tear up. He did not like crushing her childish beliefs, but he had to explain to her, the reasons and circumstances. These happened to be the few things Tom Riddle believed in.

"He…is still…my brother." Constance choked out between sobs.

Tom shook his head, the convincing proved harder than he thought.

"No, he is only your _half-brother_ , by blood only." An annoyed edge started creeping into his voice. "We cast him out by choice."

"He is only two years old!" Her voice was now raised, "You sent a baby to live in that place!"

Tom's handsome eyes flashed back at her, "That should be none of your concern, Constance. What happens to that witch's baby, happens. You cannot, and will not interfere."

These words pointedly marked the end of the girl's accusations. Tom dropped her hand, and stalked out, not sparing another glance at his crying child.

* * *

Constance Riddle awoke early the next morning.

The lass tiptoed around her parent's silent room. She could barely contain her excitement as she pulled on her shoes hastily. She was going to see her baby brother today, whether her father liked it or not.

In another one of their screaming matches, Tom had unwittingly let slip the name of the orphanage that housed Tom Marvolo Riddle. The possibility of kidnapping and getting lost hung gloomily on her head, but she still meekly braved the dangers. After that fateful day, she snuck out as often as possible to pay little Tom visits.

People eyed the little girl as she strode purposefully down the streets. Constance was hesitant, but it surprisingly had taken only a bit of prodding and asking for her to be directed to Wool's orphanage. And then she had thoroughly memorized the path, her legs carried her there of their own will.

Constance's spine crawled as she looked up at the imposing building. To think that her baby brother was caged in there! Regardless of the hell she would get for her doings when she went back home, Constance entered the doorway, and tried her best to ignore the usual questioning gazes of the women inside.

Mrs. Cole, a plump matron with large eyes and a stiff lip watched the evidently resolute lass stroll the halls, trying her best to look fixed. She did not understand why she came week after week, looking for the sullen little boy, her mood almost cheerful.

She eventually sighed and beckoned the girl over.

"Looking for Tom?" Her voice was as devoid of warmth as her eyes. Constance nodded jerkily, a smile pulling at her lip as the matron asked her to follow.

Mrs. Cole led her down a long hallway, into a door that held something akin to a playpen. A morose woman sat in a corner, her nose in a book, and the chatter of children filled the gloom.

"Search." Mrs. Cole said simply, and then left.

Constance's eyes flitted around the corners, the walls. She knew she would find Tom huddled in some small dark space, trying to hide away. Constance walked over to a table with two feet protruding from underneath it.

She peered into the space and was greeted by a pair of thin, short arms thrown around her neck.

"Connie!" Tom breathed, as he successfully cut off her own. She wrapped her arms around his middle, her heart aching as his sharp ribs pressed against her fingers.

With some coaxing and babbling, she pulled him away, retrieving a box that Tom lunged for. Connie tried her best to smile as sadness overtook her. How could they not feed their babies enough?

She patted his soft curls as he wolfed the food down.

"How have you been?" She whispered. Tom looked up at her, and for a moment Constance wished he did not have all of his father's features.

"Good." He mumbled, clearly lying.

Constance eyed him. He was not going to tell her so she was going to make him. This was how it had always been. She had to devise a plan to get him to stop hiding his injuries and illnesses.

"Bad." She replied dourly.

"Good!" Tom insisted. She sighed.

"Tell me who did what, Tommy."

He shook his head, crying out "Good!" again.

She grabbed his arm and he winced pulling it away. Eyes wide, Constance pulled his sleeve up. Dark stripes lay on his pale skin, the result of being held harshly. The handprint did not belong to a child.

Constance grit her teeth, but said nothing. She looked at her half-brother, and her heart broke all over again.

He was only two years old.

A two year old's eyes should not look so lightless. His voice should not be so small, his gaze perpetually downcast. There was no healthy pink tint in his cheeks. He was pale. So pale, pale all over, as though only a few pints of blood resided in him.

Silently, Constance cast the now empty box aside, and pulled Tom into her arms. Like most children he did not struggle to get away, but leant against her, touch starved.

"You will go?" he mumbled in her hair. And Constance wanted to say no so badly. She wanted to tell him she will be here, she always will be. But her voice broke as did her heart as she choked out, "Yes."

Tom simply nodded. He didn't put up a restraint. He didn't ask her not to. He did not grab onto her. He never did. The awful place had sucked more than just the life out of him.

"But I will come back, Tommy." She promised. "I always do, don't I?"

He sniffled. And she realized he was crying. She held him tighter. Tom almost never cried.

"Just wait for me."

The child nodded again. "Fast." He whispered.

"As fast as I can."

* * *

Tom Riddle paced furiously in his study.

What had he not tried? From gentle wordings to threats and lashings, there seemed to be not one method effective enough to keep the girl away from the vermin child. He had only wanted to cut off all connections that he had whatsoever from the witch who had tainted his life. He could not understand why his daughter made it so difficult for him to do so.

A slight woman watched her husband wear himself out from an alarmed perch on a chair.

She jumped slightly as Tom's hand made contact with the wall.

"What do I do, Irene?"

His despair was evident in his actions and his words. His daughter was gone. He had a good idea of where she could be, but he didn't dare go. He never wanted to set eyes on that pale, sickly boy. And he was aware Constance would return.

She would come back, endure her punishments, then do it all over again.

He growled in frustration.

"Tom…" Irene started, then trailed off, not knowing what to say.

Tom dropped himself into a couch, tired and worried, but most of all, infuriated.

And that was the precise moment the couple heard their front door creak open, ever so slightly, then shut again. Tom shot out of his seat.

"Tom!" his wife cried out, racing after the man. He was radiating a murderous intent now, she had to protect her daughter.

" _Constance!"_

Constance stood sheepishly in the hallway.

The girl flinched, her arms wrapped around herself. She had seen her father angry, but this did not seem to compare. A shiver wound through her.

"Father…"

His eyes blazing, his self-control slipped. He struck the girl across her face. Irene shrieked.

Constance was ensconced in her mother's arms, doting fingers probing the mark reddening her cheek. Silent tears streaked down her face. She had never been hit before. A welling, prickly ball of something climbed up her throat.

Her hands were balled into fists tight enough that her nails broke her skin. Heart contracting, malignant sobs erupted from her lip. Irene stroked her hair, but the spiky emotion only seemed to multiply its thorns. Fists shaking, Constance released the bristly ball from her being.

A light shattered into darkness dangerously close to where Tom had been standing. He turned to look at her, and she took in his wide, dark eyes, all the blood had receded from his visage.

A spiteful satisfaction filled her to the brim as she caught the look on her father's face.

Horrified.

* * *

And yet Constance picked herself wearily out of her bed early one morning. She dressed and fastened her shoes, before she reached for the keys.

Her fingers closed around thin air.

She looked up startled. The hook was empty. Alarmed, she tried the handle. The door was tightly shut. Locked.

She ran around, trying each of the windows, but they did not budge.

Defeated, she slid down a wall, the startings of tears stinging her eyes.

"Constance."

He blood ran cold.

She gulped, slowly turning around, meeting her glowering father's eyes, which narrowed dangerously.

The girl felt her fists and throat swell with pressure. The force demanding, all its thorns stabbing her from the inside.

She turned on her heel and fled.

* * *

Constance lay cowering in her bed.

Her thoughts were haunted by the little, emaciated boy she had left behind.

 _Fast_ , Tom had pleaded.

Salty drops soaked her pillow. She had broken the promise that the little boy was clinging onto. She desperately hoped that the person who had inflicted those bruises on his hand was far away from him.

Far away.

It is where she wanted to take him. It is where she wanted to go herself.

Constance took to waking up early every morning. She would stand in front of the large, bolted door, dejection ringing in her ears. She would stand there until her mother would find her. Sometimes her father found her too. Those were the days she spent locked in her room, radiating something that made her books chatter in their shelves.

This became a routine before Constance realized it. She lived out her days gloomily, her half-brother in her thoughts. She wanted to see him. She wanted to tell him it was not her fault. She wanted to reassure him, but she was stuck. Her actions were monitored like a hawk's. She seemed to become a prisoner in her own house.

She realized how much her father hated Tom Marvolo Riddle. He readily hit her and confined her to keep them apart.

Months passed.

Constance was the most subdued she had been. Her Christmas came and went quietly. She went through the motions of daily life, while she missed the small boy dearly. Her parents celebrated New Year's Eve and she quietly acknowledged her brother turning three.

"Happy birthday, Tommy." She had mumbled, knowing full well that any birthday of his would be anything but happy.

* * *

The orphanage had never felt this cavernous.

Tom was used to being alone. He had learned to close himself off, hide himself, make himself small. He had lived like that ever since. He could only vaguely recall the days the young curly haired girl, green eyed, with the box of goodies used to visit him.

"Happy birthday," He said vindictively to his reflection.

At ten, Tom was just as withered as he had been when he was two. Gray skinned, dark eyes and hair standing out almost painfully on his thin, white frame. He stared balefully at his face.

At his father's face.

The mirror splintered under his gaze, then exploded.

' _As fast as I can.'_

What a blatant liar.

Tom shuffled over to his bed, crawling in, he drew his covers around him.

He had waited.

He waited eight years.

He had accepted that she too, was only a liar. Like everyone else. He shouldn't have let her matter, holding onto her promise for eight long years. He wanted to let go. He had grown weary of holding so tightly onto her words. He only wanted to get out of his personal hell.

Sleep started to claim the sickly boy. But he was not able to fall into a deep slumber, his body frigid, and his head hot. These damn people could not even provide proper blankets.

His teeth chattered at a set rhythm, his heart pounding, head spinning. Fever coursed through him, sending shivers rippling through his limbs. He would simply have to wait his illness out. Time seemed to be the best medicine.

Tom lay there wafting in and out of a fitful sleep, his figure gripped by tight, chilly fingers. As another shiver ripped through him, he cursed foully under his breath. Maybe this was the way he would eventually die…

And then, warmth. Blessed warmth.

The godforsaken fingers of ice released their hold on him, and he relished the warmth before registering the presence of the thick blanket weighing down on him. He bolted upright on the bed, ready to defend himself.

"Wherever did you learn such coarse language from, I wonder?"

Those green eyes, he remembered them.

His dark ones narrowed back at her.

"How did you come in?"

"This place has flimsy windows."

Tom studied her. She was taller. Her hair longer, her eyes remained the same, save for the darkness underneath them. She almost seemed as pale as him.

"What do you want?"

He watched surprise spread over her features, then she lifted a hand, and slapped her forehead lightly. Inwardly, she felt reminiscent, remembering the days when the little boy would throw himself at her, babble nonsense until she understood him. A strange pain pierced her as she watched the same boy look her over, eyes cold and calculating.

"If I would have known that this place would do this to you," she advanced, and Tom scuttled back, curling against himself as he begrudgingly let her pat his head as though he were two again. He was in no position to fight.

"Tom, I would have taken you away from here the first chance I would have gotten."

He scoffed.

"So why did you not?"

Her gaze fell, and Tom watched in astonishment as two drops fell out of her eyes.

"I am sorry." She whispered.

He did not know what she was apologizing for. For breaking her promise? For giving him false hope for eight, long years? For abandoning him here? He almost scoffed again.

"I am sorry for everything, Tommy," she clarified, observing the conflict flit across his face. "Everything."

A strained silence issued.

"Tell me you did not have a choice."

"What?"

"Tell me you did everything you could to get to me, but you did not have a choice. I might forgive you then."

Her expression softened.

"I did more than everything, Tom," she started." But there was one person who made everything so much harder."

"My father." Tom hissed.

" _Our_ Father, Tom." Constance corrected him, sitting on his bed. "You will not believe how much he despised you…"

Tom's expression was a twisted mix of anger, resentment, and hatred. She could feel it rolling off him in waves.

"Where have you been?"

Constance heaved heavily. "Me? I have been _stuck_ , Tom. Stuck in that awful house."

He took in her words, determining their purpose.

"How did you leave?"

My, he was quite the inquisitive child, she thought. Or perhaps he was only suspicious. That seemed like a plausible explanation.

"I ran away."

Constance wanted to hold him again, he looked so small, thin, so… _dead._ But she had a feeling the boy would lash out if she touched him.

"Are you leaving?"

His question was abrupt, it came out of the blue. But that was not the reason it left Constance speechless.

The familiar heartache shredded her. It was the same question. He only worded it more eloquently. For the first time, Constance's heart lifted.

"No,"

Tom's eyes shot up.

She held up a pacifying hand.

"I am not leaving, means I will come back. I have to go, eventually though."

She did not miss the flash of pain on his face.

And Constance leaned forward, very cautiously, gingerly she placed her hands on his shoulders. She wished he would fling his arms around her as he did when he was so little. But she persisted, gently easing his frame around her, his curls resting on her shoulder. He did not hold her back, as she rubbed him soothingly.

"I am still only seventeen, Tom." She explained. "Please give me some time while I build my life. I did get myself thrown out for this, you know." She lay her head on his, chuckling softly.

"Until then, Tom."

And he nodded against her shoulder, his arms finally coming to tentatively touch her own. He didn't resist. He didn't ask her not to. Her eyes flooded as she recalled how similar this situation was to the last time she left him.

It won't be the same. This time she will not leave her little brother to fend for himself.

She won't break any promises this time.

Reluctantly, she released him, and he dropped his hands immediately.

Constance then produced a battered box from the worn bag that accompanied her.

"I brought all your favorites." She declared, his expression at the sight of proper food still made her inwardly wince.

He looked up at her, her father's features, though sunken and pallor-ridden as they were, looked back at her. She cursed her father for passing down his appearances to both of his children. She prided herself on her possession of her mother's eyes. It was what set her and her father's glaring features apart.

He had something on his face that she almost dared to call a smile. Or it could have been an expression that came with raging fever.

Constance reached forward, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead and his neck. He swatted her hand away.

"Tommy. You are burning up."

"I am _fine_." He retorted right back.

She sighed. There were a lot of things that changed about her little brother, but he still hid his ailments. She wondered how she could get him to stop doing that,and a wave of dejavu overtook her.

She simply pulled his blankets tighter around him.

"Tommy please, let me help you." Her tone became pleading.

He looked back at her, and he was indeed smiling. She rejoiced for a moment, before she recognized the look as something her father wore when we wanted something. It wasn't a smile.

It was a warped smirk.

"On only one condition, Constance."

As much as she dearly missed the tiny voice calling out "Connie!" she didn't have the time to savor her name coming from him, urgently she asked, "What?"

"You will never…" His voice was dark, she gulped thickly.

"… _ever_ call me Tommy again."

* * *

 **A/N:**

The age of consent in the 1930's was actually 16, but i am keeping it 18, because well, apart from the universal age of consent, it also fits my timelines.

Bear with me. I need to get her character down, and Tom plays a big role in all this. (He is also my other favorite character, apart from Severus, of course.)

I hope this story is enjoyable so far. I didn't want to spend chapters explaining these events, so I wrote it up in one chapter. I hope it is not rushed.

Thank you for reading, and please review :)

 **nexumie**


	3. Home

**Chapter 2: Home**

* * *

" _That witch cursed my family!"_

 _A woman's body shielded the little one's as the house shook and rattled. The noise was amplified by the raging man from whom vile curses and accusations flew. A letter was clutched in his fingers._

" _We are giving her away!"_

 _The woman's eyes widened._

" _Tom, no!" She cried._

" _Irene, we either give her away, or I shall slay her!"_

 _The house seemed to panic in response to the little girl. Objects shook and shattered, Tom's ear-piercing yells punctuating her unstable mind._

 _Her mother held her, as Constance covered her ears, eyes squeezed shut, as she screamed, and screamed._

* * *

Constance could almost call the year that passed, happy.

It was a compromising happiness, one filled with uncertainty, cold nights, and empty stomachs, she could not say she was utterly cheerful, but she was not sad. She wished she could say the same about Tom.

She was still awaiting her eighteenth birthday. That would mark the day she could finally remove him from the institution. The day their lives could really take a turn. But every time she would visit him, he would always ask her the same question.

When?

January, the ninth, Tom, she would reply every time.

The house that she had hunted up was tiny, it had the barest accommodations, but it was enough. Constance had spent the year working diligently, scraping together the money to sustain herself and Tom.

Her hard work paid off well as the day came when they stepped into the minuscule apartment. Constance placed a hand on the short boy, the look of satisfaction made her think that even the lengthy legal hassles were worth this.

"Home, Tom." She said.

The boy seemed to experience emotions in extremes. And she always seemed to pick up on his feelings by how strongly his aura would change. And right now, Tom was happy. She couldn't ask for anymore.

She indeed did not break her promise this time.

* * *

" _What are you doing?!"_

The moments when Constance would raise her voice at her brother were far and in-between. She always tried to control her explosive temper, but the boy nearly insisted on her screaming at times.

"Put that thing _down_!"

Tom lifted his dark eyes, his arm held out. A long, ropelike creature wound itself around his limb.

"They find me," He responded to her outburst, "They speak to me, Constance."

Constance wanted to roll her eyes at his theatrics. But the moment demanded her total fear. The snake rolled around, its head rising, beady eyes trained on her.

Her spine prickled. She strode across the room, preparing to wrench the thing off his arm, and fling it out the window. But Tom whipped himself out of reach, cradling the snake, she almost screamed at how close its mouth was to his hand.

"Tom! That is _enough_ , hand it over!"

"Constance," Tom retorted, twisting away from her "I need to ask you something,"

She stopped in her tracks. His voice was desperate, his eyes large and pleading. She knew he was only manipulating her to listen to him, but the earnest in his eyes was real.

"…what?" She asked, trepidation clear.

Tom deliberated, framing his question, in his mind. Then he blurted out,

"Can you do things?"

This time, Constance really rolled her eyes.

"Put the snake down, Tom. Then we can talk about this."

He shook his head no. She sighed. There was no budging him, he always did what he wanted, got what he desired.

"What things?"

"Move things without touching them."

He eyes rounded.

"Make animals do things without training them."

She gasped her astonishment.

"Tom…what…?"

" _Connie,"_ he started, using the name he knew would melt her, he saw her eyes narrow, she was not falling for his tricks.

" _Constance_ , can you…make people hurt?"

Constance rose from her seat abruptly. She was trying to hide her bewilderment, but she knew she was not succeeding. But she knew that Tom would know even if she did manage to hold her composure.

"You know what I am talking about, don't you?"

Constance shook her head.

"No. Tom, I do not."

She spun on her heel and exited.

* * *

That night, as Constance lay in her bed, distress filled her veins.

She knew. She knew exactly what he was talking about. The many instances of things setting off, shattering, the house shaking with her emotions, the pressure begging to be freed from her, she knew.

Low hissing ensued from Tom's bed. She faced the wall, she could not bear watching him interact with that snake. He had even named it! She shuddered, wondering how much was lies and how much the truth.

She tried to train her thoughts elsewhere, but they insisted on going towards the rustling and shushing from the bed across from hers. Derision rocked her, as she recognized Tom's voice, speaking fluently in a whispering, hissing tongue she had never heard before.

Constance slowly rolled over, abandoning the bland safety of the blank wall.

True to her suspicions, Tom was still sitting up in bed, the snake coiled in his lap. The hissing continued, Tom making sentences in the foreign tongue, directing them determinedly at the creature. The fear convulsed in her, as she observed in absolute amazement.

 _Did that snake just nod?_

* * *

The days passed, and one day the siblings had a rather peculiar visitor.

Constance paced angrily, infuriated at having been left out of the conversation that was carried out in hushed whispers within the room.

 _Dumbledore._

She had never heard of a name as odd, and Constance had met people with a lot of curious names. Not only was his name eccentric, the man came dressed in a full garb of long, glittering robes. A pointed hat perched on his head, and strange branch he would wave about. He had asked her to stall outside while he talked to her brother.

Constant leaped as the sounds of a roaring fire sprang up from her room. This was the last straw; did the man just set fire to her house?

She disregarded his request to stay outside, Constance yanked the door open, and shrieked.

" _You set fire to my wardrobe!"_

Tom stood in a corner, his demeanor that of a chilly indifference that he adopted around strangers. The Dumbledore man stood _smiling_ in the center of the room, his peculiar branch raised.

"Ah. Miss Riddle," his tone was calm, collected. She expected him to be angry, but Dumbledore had surprised her in more ways than one.

"Put it _out!"_ She screeched, pointing frantically at the blazing cupboard.

The man flicked the stick in his hand, and the fire disappeared, not one scorch mark remained on her furniture.

"H-how, what-"

"Constance-" Tom started, his cold eyes directly contradicted the naked excitement in his voice.

"Miss Riddle," Dumbledore cut him off.

"Tom has been accepted to Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry." He said, his eyes held a twinkle, but his voice was formal, businesslike.

"As his legal guardian, I will need you to complete some paperwork to allow his attendance."

" _What?"_

"Now, Miss riddle, this has come as a surprise, I am aware-"

"A _surprise?_ " Constance groused, "You come in here, setting fire to my belongings, then you are telling me that some pretend school has accepted Tom, and you expect me to let him go?!"

Dumbledore looked as though he wanted to huff at her out-pour.

"Miss Riddle, a word, please." Dumbledore's eyes flashed to Tom for a split second, "Preferably only our company."

"Leave, Tom." Constance's voice was hard, she had pointedly asked him to only leave, she had allowed him to eavesdrop, she knew he would do it anyway.

Tom slunk out of the room.

"There are some things I wish for you to know, Miss Riddle."

Her eyes did not lose their edge. She folded her arms, green eyes narrowed.

"Tom, is a wizard…" Dumbledore said simply, Constance eyes rolled.

"…one that I must ask you to keep a close eye on."

"Why?" Constance derided, "This sounds exactly like make-belie-"

"This is not make-believe. Magic truly exists. So does Hogwarts." The bearded man insisted.

"Why must I believe you?"

"You saw me put out the fire, did you not?'

Constance was stumped. She chewed her lip nervously. She had run out of valid arguments.

"Is this mandatory?"

Dumbledore raised a brow, "No, but it is strongly recommended."

"You mean I can choose to not send him?" The prospect was certainly appealing.

"I would advise you not to, Miss Riddle. You, of all people must know how much losing the opportunity to be part of the world of magic, must hurt."

There had been many surprises today, many that made her want to laugh, but this statement was the one that really made Constance chuckle darkly.

"I do not know what you mean."

Dumbledore's calm composure was replaced by a look of surprise.

"Miss Riddle," his voice was critical, "Are you not aware you are a witch?"

* * *

Tom had insisted on having a separate bed. Constance had put up a small fight, but had relented. Tom had a fierce sense of independence, and his hate for how much clearly needed her seemed to disgust him, so she allowed him his own space, and victorious, he claimed the left side of the room as his own.

However, now the siblings lay curled in the same bed, Tom's smaller figure crouched, Constance's lay down, the silence engulfing them was stony, absolute.

"Do you want to go?"

She didn't want him to go. But the recent revelations had shook her mind and body thoroughly. A witch. Who would have thought?

Her inquires and outburst had gotten Dumbledore to tell her all that he knew. She was lucky he knew so much.

Of course Tom and Irene declined. Her letter must have arrived too. She distinctly remembered how grouchy her father had been the few months after she turned eleven. The letter must have been a confirmation of their deepest fears.

Constance sighed when Tom did not answer. Out of habit, she reached out, patting his curly head. He shuffled away.

"I do." He murmured.

She wouldn't hold him back then. It was a good thing that he knew; she never had any knowledge of any of this. She wanted Tom to make a choice, and he had.

"Okay."

She sat up, determined. She knew he would try to thrash out of her hold as usual, but she grabbed the smaller boy, crushing him to her. As expected he put up a fight, but it was uncharacteristically short and feeble.

He truly surprised Constance when he held her back. She stroked his hair, of course he struggled a bit when he wanted to be held, and he had to keep up his defiant and unfeeling front after all. What a peculiar child.

This was a rare moment come to pass. Tom hated her doting, while she tried to be the mother he never had. Tom would do everything on his own; he left little opportunities for Constance to croon over him.

"I shall miss you."

And she would. As infuriating as he could be, Tom was still only an eleven year old boy. One to whom life had dealt a brash hand. One who was alone in the phase of his life when he needed someone the most. He was just a small, broken child.

Constance's mind flashed back to the moment Dumbledore had departed. " _Keep an eye on him,"_ His voice was the firmest it had been since she had met him, traces of anxiety hidden in his words. She wondered just what a child of eleven, juvenile and innocuous, exuded that made the bearded man warn her so sternly.

Dumbledore would never know of their bond. He looked at her brother as though he expected him to burst into flames as well.

She would miss her fiery little brother.

And she knew that on some small level, he would remember her fondly too. He must think she never noticed the days when blankets seemed to materialize on her if she fell asleep on the couch, the days when she would skip meals in favor of her many dubious jobs and she would come home to find leftovers on the table accompanied by a threatening note.

Yes, he would miss her too. She hoped.

* * *

September the first came much too soon.

Constance had never seen Tom in such high spirits. The few belongings he had were stuffed hastily into a trunk that once belonged to her, his new wand and robes folded neatly on the bed.

Diagon Alley was almost an intimidating experience. Dumbledore had asked an older student to accompany the pair to the place, and then Constance exchanged a formidable amount of her savings for wizarding money. The necessities had been bought, as she watched Tom try his level best to keep his cold front upright.

This was the first taste that Constance had of the world she belonged to. Her aversion towards her parents rose a few notches as she took in the wonderful place they had kept her from.

She had handed Tom a meagre amount of money and told him to spend it on himself. He didn't surprise her when he came back with a thick book clutched in his arms.

She had used the time Tom was gone to buy herself a wand. She was not sure what she would do with it, considering her lack of magical education rendered the wand useless. Constance found a need for her wand when she found a dictionary of spells and wandwork, she would worry about the colossal amounts she spent later on.

The same student accompanied the pair through a strange wall that landed them in an equally as strange station. The place radiated magic. Constance's heart wept at the life she never had.

Her little brother seemed to have forgotten she existed. His eyes were wheeling about, drinking in the scene before him, this was where they both belonged, but Tom had an opportunity to integrate himself within it.

Constance let him take that opportunity, as she watched him climb into the scarlet engine. He was going to disappear into the train, when he stiffened, Tom looked over his shoulder, having remembered the half-sister he was leaving behind.

Their eyes made contact, he nodded once, and then went on.

* * *

They had lived for only one measly year in that tiny apartment. She should not have gotten so attached to this place as she did.

Constance was sullen, leaving this place felt like leaving an old friend behind.

She tugged the trunk behind her, the spell book in her hands, wand in her pocket. She spared one more sweeping glance, then turned and left the place.

* * *

The constant noise and hustle was going to take some getting used to.

Constance knew the other world was going to be colorful, but she had not expected it to be so lively. The sounds and whistling and hooting and chattering seemed to never cease. There was so much to see, she forgot about her previous life almost hurriedly.

The new place was even smaller than the previous one, but she found she didn't mind it one bit. The sounds from the world outside relentlessly penetrated the silence, it was a connection that reminded her of the new world behind her walls, and it seemed to expand the small apartment.

Constance threw herself down on her bed, breathing deeply.

She had come home.

* * *

 **A/N:**

Wow. Who knew I would have enjoyed writing family genres so much?

I always thought it annoying that even at the tender age of eleven, people always treated Tom like he was already evil. I mean, no matter how much evil was ingrained into his DNA, he was still a child. A child who was alone and victimized, no less. I always wished he had a mother figure to worry over him. That was actually a basis of where Constance came from.

The first chapters will just be kicking the story off. Constance has only one person she cares dearly about right now, Tom. Severus will eventually enter, just be patient ;)

 **nexumie.**


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